


The Shortest Distance Between Two Points

by ameonna (zetsubonna), melospiza



Series: Rook's Gambit [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Consensual Mind Control, Corporal Punishment, D/s, Dominance, Dominant character, Explicit Sexual Content, Humiliation, Legilimency, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Occlumency, Oral Sex, Partial Mind Control, Service Submission, Sexual Roleplay, Snowballing, Submission, Submissive Character, Teen Crush, Total Power Exchange, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/ameonna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/melospiza/pseuds/melospiza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade is an Auror and a Legilimens; literally a mind reader.  But when Mycroft Holmes is recruited to test his abilities, a few embarrassing fantasies slip out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers Waltz

Auror Gregory Lestrade was a Legilimens; literally a mind reader. He had spent the entirety of his education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in pursuit of the career and, upon seizing it, he'd not let a minute go by wherein he didn't use his abilities to their fullest possible extent. He'd done beautifully. Now, with almost fifteen years of service under his belt and his hair silvering prematurely at his temples, he was at the top of his game. He'd even just discovered, in the apartment of his best school friend, the missing and presumed dead wizarding detective Sherlock Holmes in the form of an unregistered animagus; a rook.

It was for this reason, Lestrade presumed, that the Ministry’s Department of Mysteries had suddenly changed his Occulumency evaluator to Mycroft Holmes.  The elder Holmes would surely know what Lestrade knew and would take great pains to keep his brother's continued existence a secret.

Lestrade had expected this from the moment he'd told Sherlock he'd been recognized. He hadn’t realized he regretted it until very late in the game, when he was already standing alone in a dark octagonal chamber deep within the Ministry, watching the way the candlelight danced on the black marble walls and casting his mind back to the Mycroft Holmes he’d known at Hogwarts- the Mycroft Holmes he’d had an ardent and very secret crush on.

The door opened, and Lestrade had to fight not to suck in a breath.  Mycroft was taller than he remembered, but there was no mistaking the quiet authority of his presence.  He was dressed in a Muggle's three-piece suit, a golden watch chain gleaming on the diamond jacquard pattern of his waistcoat, an expensive-looking umbrella dangling from the crook of his arm.  He stood the same, full of confidence; refined, elegant, authoritative. His hairline had dipped back a bit, but it was fine; on him, it suited his face.

"Good afternoon, Mister Lestrade," Mycroft Holmes said.  His voice was cool, though his lips twitched into a pleasant enough smile as he crossed the room toward Lestrade and held out his hand.  He was not so striking in appearance as his brother, but was quite handsome in his own way, imposingly tall with pale eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. There was something of a shadow about his face, however, a subtly drawn, pained look that settled across his features whenever he stopped smiling. Though he'd only worn a black armband for six months or so after his brother's death, as was typical, the expression combined with the charcoal color of his suit suggested he was still in mourning. Lestrade had to marvel at the complete believability of the scam.

"Mister Holmes," he murmured, returning the handshake.

Since he'd began studying Legilimency, Lestrade read other people obsessively, which was, he knew, why the magic was itself nearly forbidden. With the untrained, he didn't need his wand out-- he hardly needed to concentrate. People broadcasted their thoughts like stations on the wizarding wireless; the hardest part, once he had been taught to listen, was being able to shut it all off, or to whittle it down and find out what he was looking for in the slushing mire of a thousand minds all whirring away at once.

But with Mycroft Holmes, there was nothing. Silence. A dead space. It was like Lestrade was alone in the room. His other instructors had not been nearly so accomplished. He was impressed. If he wanted to even register the elder Holmes, he'd need to work for it.

"I've been through this a few times,” Lestrade began, throwing up every shield he could conceive in his mind.  He hid all the important things he thought Mycroft would look for, concealing them within puzzleboxes created by his own imagination, up shifting stairs and down changing corridors as numerous and maze-like as the halls of Hogwarts itself. There were other thoughts and memories he could try to hide, but he knew clinging to them too stubbornly would compromise him, destroy the bits he was to be tested on, and the last thing he wanted was to fail in front of Mycroft Holmes. 

“Everyone begins differently. Just let me know where you'd like to start. I'll do my best to cooperate."

"I'd like to start with a game," Mycroft said mildly, placing the tip of his umbrella upon the floor and gripping the handle with both hands.  "It's tremendously popular among Muggles, and I do hope you will indulge me. It's called 'Two Truths and a Lie.' Fairly straightforward, don't you think?"

"Sounds interesting," Lestrade replied.  Behind the shields, he wondered what Mycroft looked like without a tie. When Mycroft Holmes had been head boy, rumor around school had been that he slept in it.

"I suppose I should go first, since I suggested it."  Mycroft rocked back upon his heels, then forward again, his eyes flicking elsewhere, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he returned his gaze to Lestrade, staring intently at him, his body language giving off no clues whatsoever as he stated, "This morning for breakfast I had a fry-up, which was prepared for me by my house-elf, Grimsby. Also, I am wearing mis-matched socks."

He paused for a moment, then offered a thin smile as he queried, "Which is the lie, Mister Lestrade?"

Lestrade pressed his lips together. His wand was in his sleeve. He wouldn't need it. Not yet.

"The fry-up. You had toast. Dry. Wheat. Coffee, black, one cup. Melon. An egg. Boiled. No salt. The mismatched socks are a personal idiosyncrasy. People rarely notice."

The way Mycroft's eyes lit up made Lestrade feel fifteen again, like a young boy preening for attention.

"Well done, Mister Lestrade. Now it's your turn."

He felt it, the barest brush, like a moth flitting past his temple. He wouldn't have noticed at all if he hadn't been waiting for just such a thing.  Lestrade considered his phrasing quickly, then spun it all out, as though lining up pins for a bowling match.

"I always walk when I have to come to the Ministry. I could Apparate, but I find the mental noise of being the only Legilimens on a city street helps me sharpen my focus, like a warm up. Still, it's a nervous thing, evaluations."

"Oh, I hardly need to pluck the truth from your mind," Mycroft said smoothly, "as you clearly don't show any signs of nerves. Do try harder."

"I should really know better, shouldn't I?" Lestrade murmured. "All right, then."

He settled himself on the edge of the table.

"I haven't seen you since your seventh year graduation. I've been avoiding you. I knew you'd be my evaluator as soon as I left Baker Street."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, flicked up toward the ceiling, then back to Lestrade. It seemed that perhaps Lestrade had succeeded in confounding him. Or perhaps he was simply indicating that they were being observed, and that he should watch his mouth.

"Better," he murmured. Lestrade felt the fluttering sensation again- subtle, impossibly gentle, but there. Trying to invade someone's mind when they were actively resisting was usually a painful process. Mycroft's delicacy was truly unique.

"You have seen me," he concluded at last. "But you've been avoiding me. I wonder... well, that isn't what this evaluation is about, is it?"

Mycroft smiled at him again. It didn't quite warm his eyes.

"No. I'd imagine not," Lestrade agreed, pleased and wary at the same time.

_Baker Street. So, I was right, then. He switched himself in as my evaluator._

"Your turn, then, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft inclined his head, the corners of his mouth drawn down into a frown.

"My middle name is Apollonius. I fear death. After my brother was slain, I had nightmares for three months."  Deeply personal statements were far more difficult to tease apart, especially when Mycroft was not allowing a single twitch or thread of thought to betray him.

"Mine's Hephaestus. Old wizarding families pick the oddest traditions to cling to." Lestrade shrugged glibly, then smirked.  "But that's the lie. The other two are perfectly accurate."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "I've had seven wands. Sherlock broke my second in a fistfight, before John pulled us apart. I liked him."

Mycroft lifted one hand from the curved wooden handle of his umbrella and rubbed his fingertips against his temple. Something about the turn of conversation seemed to be wearying him. Of course he knew Sherlock was still alive...didn't he?

"It wasn't John," he noted at last. "But I'm not sure who it was. You are sufficiently good at lying, and detecting lies. Let us move on to another test."

Mycroft returned his hands to the handle of his umbrella, tapping the tip lightly against the stone floor before he continued, "Two floors above us, in the Atrium, there is a wizard wearing a green hat. First you must find him, and then you must obtain the following information: his name, what he had for breakfast, and the status of his marriage."

Lestrade reached out to grab the back of a nearby chair, twirling it to face them in an easy gesture before settling into it and closing his eyes.  He touched his wand, just barely, with the tips of the fingers of his right hand. 

During the next six minutes, he was silent. His breathing was even. All the little surface thoughts of his mind flickered away, but his innermost thoughts were kept buried, deep, in case Mycroft attempted to pick at them while he searched.  He slipped from mind to mind, first searching for his target, then penetrating the mind of the wizard himself...

"Rhadamanthus McGillicuddy. Bangers and french toast with marmalade, green tea, a pear. His wife left him a week ago Tuesday, he's glad to be rid of her, he'd been trying to drive her off for years."

Mycroft didn't seem to have moved, still standing with his legs slightly apart, his hands on his umbrella. When Lestrade was finished speaking, he simply nodded in acknowledgment of the answer, then immediately put Lestrade to a new test.

"My personal assistant is standing in the corridor," said Mycroft. "Bring her into the room."

In response to some minute expression that must have crossed Lestrade's face, Mycroft gave him an indulgent smile and added, "Do not worry. I won't accuse you of any crime. I'm not asking you to use an Unforgivable Curse, it's simply a matter of possession."

It shouldn't have surprised him, Lestrade reflected, to learn that Mycroft's assistant was an Occlumens of not negligible strength.  It took him twenty-three minutes to get her through the door, moving in fits and starts, by which time both of them had broken a sweat. Lestrade felt exhausted. He'd never been asked to do anything quite that difficult in an evaluation.

She gave Mycroft a crisp salute before Lestrade released the steely grip he’d held on her mind, upon which she scowled at him, her cheeks faintly flushed.  As she turned to depart, Lestrade couldn't help a momentary pause to admire her figure before noticing from the corner of his eye that Mycroft had a wand in his hand.

The attack hit him like a cold brick to the face as soon as they locked eyes. Lestrade was suddenly aware of Mycroft's surface thoughts, scuttling and glimmering like jeweled beetles as Mycroft's mind enveloped his, battering at his shields with all the ruthless power of a hurricane.

 _Should have seen that coming, really._ Lestrade's common sense always sounded like Anderson, which was infuriating on his better days and bloody annoying now.

_~snogging Patty Devereaux in dungeon five~_

_~kissing Shirley Mayweather in dungeon five~_

_~five points from Gryffindor, Lestrade, you know why~_

_~shall I even bother~_

_~I'd advise you not to bother with Wilhemena Nickerson, Lestrade, she's already cost Ravenclaw five points this morning with Jack Crichton~_

_~dungeon five again, Lestrade? Your lack of creativity appalls~_

_~Isabella Martine, dungeon five~_

Lestrade's surface thoughts all turned in the direction of the hundred of times Mycroft had busted him getting off with girls in the dungeons, and it made admirable cover while he was sifting through those beetles and trying to see if any one of them had the slightest thing to do with Sherlock Holmes.  They struck Lestrade as being distinctly blue, green and blue and shining like scarabs, and his eyeballs were starting to ache and he could feel his pulse in his temples.

Green and blue, the mismatched socks, one forest green and one navy-

 _Dry toast and a house elf's round-eyed wistful face, hoping for compliments, and the assistant's name was Anthea (_ not Anthea, that was a lie _), a hundred hundred owls in the owlery and then the dark corridors of Hogwarts and Lestrade's hand buried deep in the lovely blond curls of Miss Nickerson, one in her hair and one up her skirt and she was undoing his belt in the dungeon that reeked of mold and damp but it was okay because his nose was full of the smell of Wilhemena's perfume and the sweet musk of her want, and then the door flew open and banged off of the wall and the girl ran, and Mycroft strode into the room, tall and forbidding, grabbing Lestrade by the shoulder and shoving him against the wall, whispering "I've had enough," and "You need to learn your lesson," and a long-fingered hand was wrapping around his cock. Except it was his own hand, and he was lying on his stomach in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory, stroking himself as his sweat soaked into the pillow and mumbling Mycroft's name to the closed, silenced bedcurtains which, in that moment, burst open, and the rook was flying at him and cawing loudly-_

Mycroft lowered his wand and let out a sharp exhalation. There was no telling how much time had passed.  A lock of hair had strayed across his brow, which was damp with sweat, his features flushed.

"Mister Lestrade."

Lestrade, for his part, was too exhausted from his evaluation to muster a blush, and gave Mycroft a weary smile instead.

"The problem of the Legilimens, of course," he murmured, adjusting his robes, "Is that sometimes one finds thoughts one was unprepared for."

He licked his lips. "A bit of a booby trap. For which I readily apologize. Not my intent to offend. I'm sure some other proctor would find something else. They usually do. I think it was the complex anatomy of the kneazle, last time."

Mycroft moved toward him, and Lestrade realized that the other man had gone quite tense, was almost trembling with it, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. He placed his opposite hand on the edge of the table then leaned close, quite beyond the range of propriety.

"It's not a trap," he hissed. "It's a loophole. You see, I found the bird."

“I thought it was your bird," Lestrade confessed, then lowered his eyes, the smile vanishing from his face.  "Caught, then. Very well done. Never had that happen before. I must be slipping. Very, very poor form indeed."

"We'll try again," said Mycroft, straightening.  "Are you ready?"

"No." Lestrade closed his eyes. "But the Dark won't wait until I'm ready, either."

The insides of killers' heads as Lestrade and his fellow Aurors dragged the dark wizards out into the light. The pride of the hunt. The smiles he had gotten from Potter- Lestrade very platonically loved Potter, wanted him to be promoted, wanted him to be his boss- when he'd managed something completely insane by virtue of being able to read almost anyone, almost anytime, almost anywhere-

And underneath, the dark current of his teenage fantasies of Mycroft Holmes, how Lestrade had developed his own interrogation voice from memories of how aloof and exasperated Mycroft had sounded about his sexual activities in particular.

_"Really, Lestrade? As if I would be interested in you. You lack exclusivity. You're the Gryffindor broom, every girl's had a ride."_

The abuse was the best part, before the touching. He'd condescend and then use his soft voice, perfect grammar and exquisite decorum to make Lestrade dizzy, ashamed, fumbling, confused.

_"I can do so much better. But you're filthy, willing and available, and apparently need to be punished, so you can just take it, and choke on it."_

Mycroft would hold Lestrade by the hair, refuse to get his hands dirty, make Lestrade do every single spell that would make Mycroft's abuse of him that much more comfortable from outside than inside it.

The beetles, they kept running from him. They were fast and seductively shiny, and Lestrade was distracted enough by the concept of a teenage Mycroft pulling his hair and face-fucking him that it took him some time to realize he couldn't catch the beetles, he would never catch the beetles, they were gleaming and noisy and fast as a distraction while Mycroft led him down the dark paths of his mind, tunneling under his psyche using the base nature of his lust to find the rook.

Mycroft spanking him, Mycroft wanking him, Mycroft fucking him, even a startling image of Lestrade bent over the table in the very room that they were in, which affected Lestrade so deeply that the words he had actually spoken to the rook came rising up as if echoing from some deep place.

_"Bit of an odd thing, though. An Occlumens bird... I've never been near as dense as you thought..."_

He blinked his eyes and shook his head and Mycroft was standing in front of him, arms folded across his chest, his brow creased.

"This is most distressing," said Mycroft.

"This is embarrassing," Lestrade grumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Both personally and professionally."

He was far more embarrassed by his lack of professional competency than his lack of personal decorum. Plenty of people who went to school in their generation had to have similar fantasies, didn't they? Mycroft had been a phenomenal prefect. He'd caught so many violations of the rules it had been a wonder the house points hadn't ended up in negative digits.

"I should hand in my badge. Really. I've never been so thoroughly broken. What would Potter say?"

Mycroft shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

"No, no. It seems to be very specific. If I try any other way of breaking in, you resist me. And you possessed Anthea- no easy feat. You'll simply have to learn to close the loophole."

"That's very easy, thank you, I'll just set about doing that, shall I?" Lestrade growled, waspish, before remembering what Mycroft had said when he was in year five about sarcasm being a refuge for the hopelessly uncreative and dull-witted to sharpen their mean spirits.  He sighed.

"Sorry. I am sorry. I'm just a bit- put out, is all. I've never had that sort of difficulty before. It's a little painful to find such a- a base weakness."

Mycroft smoothed his hair back from his brow, moved back to the other side of the table, and picked up his umbrella from where he'd dropped it, slipping his wand back into the handle.

"I've a few spare hours this evening, if you feel up to it," he said, addressing the wall three meters to Lestrade's left. "I do enjoy puzzles."

Lestrade's heart stopped, and suddenly he was fifteen, and Mycroft was only sixteen, but so very, very tall.

"Sounds-" he began, and his voice cracked, and Lestrade’s inner Anderson gave him a sharp reminder that he was over thirty.

"Good. Sounds good. I think. I do apologize for ruining the evaluation, Mister Holmes. I wasn't uncooperative intentionally."

"Not at all, not at all. Do follow me, Mister Lestrade? I would rather continue this in the privacy of my office."

He flicked his umbrella up and over his shoulder, the movement creating a silver flow of light that transformed into the glistening shape of a raven, which regarded them for only a moment before it flew off through the wall.

Mycroft led the way into the corridor, crooking his finger at Anthea ( _not Anthea?_ ) in a mute indication that she should follow them before continuing down the hallway toward the lift.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. No Turning Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade attempt to close the loophole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this 'verse, Sherlock escaped the Reichenbach Fall by being an unregistered Animagus. A rook is one of the five black crow-like birds that occur in the UK.

When Lestrade, Mycroft and Mycroft’s personal assistant stepped into the golden lift, they were joined by several witches and wizards who greeted them politely, but shuffled back away from them. Mycroft had a bit of an unusual reputation within the Ministry. It was fairly typical for no one to know what the wizards and witches who worked in the Department of Mysteries actually _did_ , but for whatever reason Mycroft Holmes seemed to possess a power and authority that went beyond his station.

Mycroft Holmes, Lestrade reminded himself for the hundredth time, was technically an Unspeakable. He did things other wizards dared not do, saw things they dared not witness and toyed with experiments they dared not contemplate. He was not directly subordinate to anyone, to Lestrade's knowledge, and he dressed in an unusual enough way that the rumor that he was the Ministry's deputy in the Muggle world seemed credible.

The lift stopped on the 9th level and Mycroft stepped out, leading the way into the black-tiled corridor that led to the Department of Mysteries.  The witch beside Lestrade flinched back a step.  He’d stood in the elevator and looked down the hall before, obviously, but had never had any reason to go down it.  Anthea’s heels clicked on the dark tile as she walked after Mycroft, but the sound was oddly muffled, as if the walls or the air itself had been spelled to swallow sound.  Lestrade cleared his throat before stepping out of the lift to follow them.

At the end of the hall was a black door, which opened into a round room lit by the eerie blue flame of dozens of candles that reflected from a floor as highly polished as ink-stained glass. On the surrounding walls were twelve doors, one of which was the one they'd just come through, which closed behind them with an ominous thud. Once it closed, Lestrade could have spun around once and been hard pressed to tell which was which. He had the unsettling feeling, however, that even if he doubled back on his own footsteps, the door he found would not lead him back to the lift.

Anthea, projecting an air of faint boredom, stood several feet from Lestrade and took advantage of the momentary pause to sneak glances at the copy of the Quibbler that had been tucked beneath her arm.  Mycroft moved to the center of the floor, tapped his umbrella against the ground and announced, "I'd like to go to my office, please."

One of the doors immediately popped open in response.  Walking briskly toward it, Mycroft drew it fully open, and then gestured for Lestrade and Anthea to pass through ahead of him.

The hall beyond was less impressive than the one outside the lift, bearing more of a resemblance to the private offices easily found on Level 2. It was still quite dark and still, but the floor was carpeted and the doors they passed had nameplates, which was both mundane and reassuring. At the door to his office Mycroft pressed his palm against the heavy wood, leaning in to whisper something that sounded like _candyfloss._ The lock clicked and the door opened.

The front office was quite large, with dark, gold-mottled wallpaper and lush carpeting, a desk for Mycroft's assistant off to the right surrounded by a variety of communications devices, including a typewriter, a wireless radio and a handful of postcard-sized portraits of witches and wizards, most of whom appeared to be dozing.  To the left was an arrangement of visitor's chairs of tufted leather interspersed with a few broad-leafed plants.

"We'll be working late, Anthea, but you may leave whenever you like," Mycroft informed her.  He spoke over his shoulder even as he was striding forward down the brief corridor that connected the front office to his private office, which was no brighter than the front office had been, with deep blue walls lit periodically by sconces.  Intricate latticework framed the kitchenette off to one side, and on the other strange animals capered across a broad painting of a dark and tortured landscape.  Lestrade didn’t pause to peer at it for very long before he was again at Mycroft’s heels. At the end of the hall was a massive wooden door with ornately carved paneling and a lamp affixed to the wall above it that looked rather like a burning eye.

The room beyond was twice as large as the front office, decorated sparsely but sumptuously, with a full-sized hearth and large Turkish rug, more latticework panels hung from the wall as decoration, and a sofa and two armchairs in addition to the massive wooden desk. In lieu of a window, the better part of the wall behind the sofa bore an alcove filled with orchids of every possible variety, illuminated by warm golden light. There was a portrait behind the desk which was empty, but the band of black crepe at the corner hinted at whose face normally occupied that portrait and gave Lestrade a clue as to why Mycroft had substituted himself in as his evaluator.  The portrait of Sherlock in John’s apartment normally didn’t move or speak, instead adopting Sherlock’s usual pose of deep thought with eyes closed and palms pressed together as if in prayer, but Lestrade knew he’d be kidding himself if he didn’t think the portrait was at least half as observant as the man himself.

Mycroft placed his umbrella in the umbrella stand next to the door with three others, then pulled off his jacket.  The sight of his crisp shirtsleeves made Lestrade’s heart give an unsteady lurch in his chest.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," Lestrade murmured, hovering awkwardly over a chair. "One sugar."

 _I've never had this problem before,_ he thought to himself. _Not that it's been easy, Legilimency is never_ easy _, strictly speaking, but to fall for a twist of the mind and be unable to recover-_

_Either I've underestimated Mycroft Holmes, overestimated myself, this crush is more serious than I realized, or I'm actually quite rubbish at my job and Sherlock should have had no problem fooling me. Perhaps I got in on chance?_

_I don't like any of those answers._

Mycroft had, with an airy wave of his hand, caused his wand to jump from his umbrella into his palm. It wasn't the handle itself, but cleverly hidden in a slot within the handle, so that it could be removed at any time and hidden upon his person. Touching the wand to his throat, Mycroft submitted the request for tea to his PA before draping his jacket over the back of the sofa, gesturing for Lestrade to sit.

Taking Mycroft’s cue, Lestrade stepped around the chair and settled in it, too intent on his brooding to enjoy the plush comfort of the seat.  For the moment Mycroft seemed content to leave him to his thoughts, silently perusing the orchids, examining the velvety blooms with his long, elegant fingers.

_Why the devil am I so hung up on you? You're tall, dark and uniquely, oddly handsome, so what? So are any number of civil servants. And that little trick you do with the telling what people have been up to just by looking at them was never as impressive coming from your brother. Strictly speaking, I prefer women. Witches. Like Anthea, who I didn't even notice at first because I was too busy being nervous about you poking around in my head for violent teenage fantasies driven by hormones and an unhealthy interest in authority figures._

_And your mind's noise reminds me of beetles. I dislike insects. Don't scarabs scavenge and eat corpses and carrion? That shouldn't be attractive at all._

The underlying response in his mind of _mystery, secrets, pyramids, exotic, treasure, heat, wind, sand, archaeology, ancient things, magic as old as time_ explained why he might associate Mycroft with the glittering beetles, but he tried to pretend that didn't justify his being attracted.

"You've had this problem before." Lestrade was begging. If it weren't true, he trusted Mycroft to lie convincingly. Hoped he would. For the sake of his dignity.

"Occlumency and Legilimency are not common talents, Mister Lestrade," Mycroft said, his words coming slow as if each were carefully considered.  As he spoke, he picked up an atomizer of amber glass and began to mist the orchids.  "And, of course, a person often has a tendency toward one or the other. Occlumency is more often taught than Legilimency, as prudence dictates those who work in the Ministry be able to protect their minds against the influence of Dark witches and wizards. Still, it is tremendously useful to have Aurors who are well versed in both."

He was being both reasonable and evasive considering he'd been probing Lestrade's mind for images of rough sex for a good thirty minutes. The walk to his office had given time for his color to go down.

"Everyone has a trigger," he continued. "Typically it is an emotional one, where someone can be manipulated into giving up their secrets by a Legilimens who teases forth painful memories. But it can sometimes be a matter of seduction."

"That isn't precisely what I was asking," Lestrade murmured.  "But thank you, Mister Holmes, for trying to spare me a certain measure of embarrassment."

Nothing Mycroft had said was new information to a career Legilimens like Lestrade. It was very general, sweeping information, designed to help him ignore the specificity of his weakness, gloss over it, avoid confronting it with the subject of the fantasy so heavily _present_. Mycroft was uninterested, found this shamefully inappropriate, or, Lestrade thought most likely, both. Which was, of course, as it should be. Lestrade expected that reaction, if he was honest with himself.

"You want to know if I’ve had this problem before," said Mycroft, finally turning toward him.  "No, Mister Lestrade, I have not. I suppose I should be flattered."

"Or you could well cite harassment and insubordination. I wouldn't hold a grudge for a minute," Lestrade sighed, shrugging.  "I wouldn't say I'd forgotten about how I felt back then, but when I realized this was inevitable, I thought it best not to hide it. I reasoned that any thought I kept particularly well-shielded would draw attention. I didn't realize the connected reactions would be quite so-"

He paused. Careful. Best to word this carefully. Mycroft might be an Unspeakable, a government man, refined, dignified and educated, but he was also, Lestrade remembered, _intensely_ private.

"I didn't think I would be so thoroughly distracted. I thought I was better equipped these days at controlling those impulses than I was in school."

He hadn't had time to pick up a girl in at least a year. Almost two. He'd had more sex in his last two years at Hogwarts than all the years since.

Lestrade hesitated. Mycroft had made an allusion to, perhaps, being pleased. If Mycroft _was_ actually flattered, or even if he only found Lestrade's teenage lust amusing...

"The way you handled it was masterful, I must admit. In your position, I think I'd have been too flustered to pursue it, at least right off the mark."

"I have been practicing for- oh, far longer than you realize," Mycroft said, setting the atomizer aside as he moved to sit on the sofa.  There was a rapping at the door, and then his assistant appeared holding the tea service, an expensive-looking set made of blue enamel and polished silver. She swished over to place the tray onto the table between them, then smiled at Mycroft, ignoring Lestrade.

Pretty girls did not often completely dismiss Lestrade, but he didn't take it for granted that this would always be the case.  Besides, he had possessed her earlier. She was right to be irate with him.

"Will you be needing anything else?" she asked.

"No, that's all," said Mycroft with a dismissive wave. "Thank you."

Lestrade watched her leave, and stood, taking off his robe. Underneath, he wore Muggle clothes: gray slacks, a button-down white shirt, no tie today. There was never any knowing when he might need to pass among Muggles, particularly outside of the Ministry. His work took him everywhere.  He draped his robe over the back of the chair like a coat, and thought again about buying a coat. Sherlock wore a coat instead of robes, it was appropriately swishy but a little too stylish for Lestrade. Something more masculine, more classic. A trench, perhaps. Like Bogart in _Casablanca_. Room for a wand, blended easily into a crowd-

Lestrade's surface thoughts felt warm and friendly, like dogs, but organized. Working dogs. His weakest point, Potter gently teased him, was that Lestrade was so obviously _law enforcement_. He reeked of _police_. People never knew what sort, but _police_ , that was obvious. Even Muggles could sense it.

He thought, sipping his tea in Mycroft's office, it might be his haircut. Or that his hair was silver so young in life.  Anderson said it was because Lestrade didn't have a single cruel or corrupt bone in his entire body.

Lestrade was aware also of the soft rasping scuttle of Mycroft's thoughts, and was also aware of the likelihood that Mycroft had only relaxed the shields around his mind in an attempt to make Lestrade feel better. Mycroft took one of the teacups and sat back on the couch, crossing his long legs and settling comfortably.

"How _did_ you find out, by the way?  About Sherlock?  I wouldn’t trust the rest of the Ministry, which is why I silenced you earlier, but we can speak freely here."

"Birds don't need walls," Lestrade said. "If they're smart enough to be familiars, though, they do _think_."  He set his tea cup on the tray.

"If you ignore him, like most Legilimens will do, he hides with the walls. In a crowded place, he blends in fine. I was focused on him. We were alone. He feels like you- loudly blank. It was like an invisibility cloak distorting a reflection. An Occlumens bird, an Animagus in the form of of a rook who I couldn’t identify and couldn’t read?  Who else could it have been?"

"Good," Mycroft murmured. "I would have been quite disappointed if you had managed to penetrate his mind. A leap of deductive reasoning worthy of the man himself, though I doubt he’d bother to grant you such praise."

That Mycroft _would_ made Lestrade feel warm all over.

"Just let me know when you're ready to start trying again," Mycroft said.

Lestrade took his time drinking his tea, bracing himself, restoring the calmness he usually took with him to investigations.  Finally, after finishing the whole cup and pouring himself a second, Lestrade closed his eyes, breathed in the steam, and nodded.

"All right. Let's begin."

"There are a few ways we can go about this," Mycroft informed him.  He slid to the edge of his seat, returning his teacup to the tray and retrieving his wand from where he’d tucked it into his waistcoat.

"You could try to hide the thought from me, which is unlikely to work. You could decide that I am so repugnant now that such thoughts no longer hold traction-"  Here he paused to smile wryly at Lestrade.  "Or you could repel me. You see, once I found the loophole, I started feeding it. And you got so caught up in what I was giving you, and in trying to pursue _my_ thoughts, that you didn't notice when I slipped past your defenses."

His expression grew serious again.

"I am _very_ accomplished at this, Mister Lestrade. Your focus should be on defending yourself, not trying to read _my_ mind."

"I've grown used to offense," Lestrade said calmly, shrugging his shoulder before drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "I'm out of practice with defense. But I _was_ a Keeper. I know I can defend. Matter of keeping my eye on the ball."

 _Not everything is Quidditch,_ Sally was constantly complaining.

 _Not everything,_ Lestrade was willing to concede. _But quite often, it is._

"You could focus on something else, or you could actively try to act against me," Mycroft noted. "Either way, you wouldn't be giving up anything. While it seems very unlikely that Wilhemena Nickerson would turn out to be a dark witch who would try to extract information from you, I hope you understand my reasons for making sure that she would never succeed."

He considered for a moment, then gestured to the other end of the sofa.

"Come and sit here."

Lestrade gave the sofa a suspicious look before he rose from his chair to sit closer to Mycroft, drinking his tea and wishing it were something a little stronger.

"I don't think Wilhemena would have any better luck than Isabella did, frankly."

Isabella Martine was currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban. Lestrade, on a tip from Hermione Weasley, had put her there.

"Fair enough."

Mycroft turned his wand over in his fingers, glancing down at it.  Then, with the barest flick of his wand and not a word spoken, Mycroft was once again prying at Lestrade’s mind. It was like the feel of fingertips exploring some locked item, pulling at the corners, looking for purchase. His own thoughts were just beyond the edge of Lestrade's consciousness, enticing him with their iridescent gleam, but Lestrade had already been warned about chasing them.

It didn't take long for Mycroft to sift through the things Lestrade had chosen not to conceal and latch upon his boyhood fantasies.  Lestrade let Mycroft see everything, took his secrets, and dove deep.

He was in fourth year, and Mycroft was newly made a prefect, and he caught Lestrade kissing a girl and embarrassed him. No points had been taken, and Mycroft had seemed somehow disappointed in him, which had made Lestrade irritable.

Mycroft had given Lestrade a second chance, and he'd promptly caught him in the same place, two weeks later, with a _different_ girl. This time, two points were taken, and Lestrade decided Mycroft was just _jealous_ because _he_ wasn't snogging girls in Dungeon Five, and from there, things had spiralled somewhere just out of control.

By the end of his fourth year, things had become routine. Mycroft would catch Lestrade in Dungeon Five or coming out of Dungeon Five or fresh from Dungeon Five at least twice a month, smelling like sweat and sex, and two point from Gryffindor had escalated to five. He always knew who the girl had been and how recently Lestrade had been with her, and recited the facts quietly and with brutal monotone as he subtracted the points from Lestrade's house.

Lestrade didn't care, he claimed, because his team made them all up at Quidditch. And anyway someone should tell Mycroft Holmes that who was shagging who where was none of his bloody business. At least he was good enough and careful enough not to publicly confront any of the girls- but Lestrade suspected he'd done it privately, because Lestrade never got any second dates.

The first fantasy came to him in a lazy, half-awake dream one night after Mycroft had busted up the middle of what Lestrade had thought at the time was his best date thus far. He awoke because, in his dream, he'd grabbed Mycroft by the tie and pulled him down for a deep, invasive kiss. It had bothered him so much- because Mycroft was _male_.  And more worrisome than that, Mycroft was _Mycroft_.  He was a prefect and a Ravenclaw, he was allergic to fun, he was a by-the-books boring standoffish _tall with creamy fair skin and eyes like the winter sky_ utter prat.

The memory of his dream spilled from his mind to Mycroft’s, the revelation making his skin prickle with heat.

 _"Are you_ completely _daft? You could at least try a different dungeon."_

_Fresh interruption, new girl fleeing, and Lestrade doesn't even have time to register the color of her hair, to remember what time this is supposed to be when Mycroft is grabbing him and shoving him onto his back across a table, dragging his trousers down to his knees. The prefect's expression is not angry, but as hard as stone, his pale face seeming to float in the darkness of the chamber above the black swirl of his robes._

_"This little thing is getting you into an awful lot of trouble," he growls. As he speaks he flicks his fingers against Lestrade's cock, making his entire body jolt with sensation- and then there is a flash of blue eyes in the darkness, cawing, the beating of wings-_

Mycroft leaned against the arm of the sofa, running his bare hand across his face.

"Fail."

"Yeah," Lestrade grunted.  He was blushing, had the decency now to be ashamed in the way his teenage self had not.

"Again."

Lestrade was starting to wonder how many of these ideas were his own, and how much of it was actually Mycroft leading him. It was worrisome, as he really didn't know what was better, and this hyper-realistic confusion seemed a web fully capable of trapping both spiders.

Their minds brushed again. Lestrade was gradually building to a high alert.

_The scene inside Lestrade's mind mirrored his surroundings. Mycroft was still refined, elegant, unconventionally handsome, with impeccable taste evident in his tailored suit and expensive umbrella, his carefully shined shoes, even his hair oil._

_Mycroft's hand was steady, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the strong fingers clenching in the fabric of Lestrade's shirt, pushing him back-_

_"Are you even trying?" he demanded._

_"Not my best," Lestrade managed. It was a lie. Nevermind that Lestrade was blushing so hard his face hurt, was so embarrassed he'd considered running from the room, but he couldn't bear to be a coward, to give up everything he'd worked for over something so small, so insignificant._

_The scene shifted.  Mycroft’s thigh pressing against Lestrade's erection, pinning him to the edge of the massive desk.  Indistinct- hands moving, murmurs, the fabric of his shirt whispering as it was pulled free of his trousers..._

_"I can scarcely believe you still have so little self restraint. At our age. It's disgusting."_

A medium-sized silvery dog with squared shoulders and a dark face- Mycroft would recognize it as a Patronus in the form of a Malinois- appeared on the edge of Lestrade's consciousness, slinking along the ground, patrolling for intruders.

One of the scarabs appeared, carapace splitting open as it vanished into a wisp of thought.

_Good._

It wasn't something Mycroft uttered aloud, not even in Lestrade's mind, where he-

_loosened Lestrade's belt with the nimble fingers of one elegant hand, flicking open the button and tugging down the zip of his trousers before sliding his hand inside._

_"You haven't changed," Mycroft said coldly, giving the hot flesh of Lestrade's rigid cock a firm squeeze. "Like a dog looking for a leg to hump."_

_There was something urgent in the way Mycroft's hand stroked him, quick and firm enough to make Lestrade's toes curl, their bodies pressed together from hip to chest. It might have had something to do with the dog_ (what dog?) _or it might have had something to do with Mycroft's own arousal, the evidence of which Lestrade could feel against his thigh._

It was at about that time that Lestrade realized he was being touched, _really_ touched. Mycroft had breached the distance between them and was now stroking Lestrade's chest with his free hand. His lips were against Lestrade's mouth, not kissing him, simply resting there, soft and sugar sweet.  It was almost enough to derail him, to make him lose again until he realized that was _precisely_ why Mycroft was doing it.

"I understand what you're doing," Lestrade murmured against Mycroft's mouth, his heart quickening.

_Lestrade gasped. He whined softly, plaintively, pleading._

"I'm grateful."

He was. He truly was, which was the only reason- besides his natural chivalry- he was keeping his real hands at his real sides.

_He shifted his thigh against Mycroft's erection through his tailored, probably Italian or French imported trousers, the heat searing his skin through four layers of fabric._

_"You-" he began, then gasped again, hanging his head. The Malinois growled, snatching up a scarab, crunching it._

"I really don't think you should, unless you mean it," Lestrade mumbled.  "Even in a professional capacity, I'm not worth the trouble"

_"You like it," Lestrade finally gasped, rutting against Mycroft's hand like a teenager._

_"Nothing of the sort.  I'm just trying to break through," Mycroft retorted in a tight whisper. His hand wandered up Lestrade's chest, fingers teasing open the top button of his shirt.  "You'd enjoy it if I did, wouldn't you?  You_ want _to be taken apart."_

_Mycroft grabbed the waist of Lestrade's trousers and shoved them down to his thighs, leaving him bare-assed against the cool wood of the desk, pushing him against it until he was half-sitting on the edge. Just as quickly, Mycroft shucked his own garments, and then he was gasping against Lestrade's mouth as their hips pushed together, heat to shocking heat._

_"I might," Lestrade admitted, softly. "But I don't know-"_

_Lestrade gasped against Mycroft's mouth, curling his fist in Mycroft's shirt, the other hand dropping to wrap around their cocks, squeezing in a way that was awkward but electrifying._

_"-if I would mind as much as I should."_

_The Malinois shimmered. Became two. Six. Ten. A dozen. A pack of dogs, closing down every thought but this, but Mycroft on him, making the loophole, Lestrade hoped, into a noose._

_Mycroft was in. His tongue was in Lestrade's mouth, his hand was in Lestrade's short, spiky silver hair, his hard cock pressed tight against Lestrade's. It was almost a honeytrap, except Lestrade really hadn't done it on purpose.  Strong hands slipped down, squeezing Lestrade's bare ass, and-_

_"Who wouldn't want you?" Lestrade murmured, and it wasn't lip service, sarcasm or taunt. It was earnest disbelief, that anyone would ever turn Mycroft Holmes down._

_A sudden shuddering flash, like a clap of thunder-_

And then Mycroft was sitting at the other end of the couch again, legs crossed and teacup in hand. Lestrade's mind was free of every last trace of him. He'd loosened his tie, his face pink, sweat clinging to his upper lip. But his brow was creased, his gaze fixed upon the opposite wall.

"Well done, Mister Lestrade," he murmured, addressing the hearth.


	3. Slipping Through our Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loophole closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is quite short, but I just wanted to post an update to let you know that I haven't abandoned this!

A clock ticked on the mantelpiece in the dimly-lit, sumptuous office of Mycroft Holmes deep within the Department of Mysteries, deeper than any Auror had reason or right to go.  And yet Greg Lestrade was sitting there on one end of Mycroft’s sofa, a cup of tea cooling in his hand, staring at the man himself.  Mycroft sat on the opposite end of the sofa and gazed studiously into the hearth.  Lestrade took the opportunity to drink in the sight of him, the way he’d been unmade, only minutely, but Mycroft Holmes was usually so prim that in his shirtsleeves, with a stray curl on his brow and his tie loosened and sweat on his lip, he seemed practically debauched.  Beneath the sound of the clock, Lestrade could hear his exhale.  A hint of color lingered in Mycroft’s cheeks, a rosy stain on the unblemished porcelain.

Lestrade shook his head, his stomach twisting around onto itself as he murmured, "I didn't imagine that part, then.”  

_The part where you're shy.  And probably a tease.  You're really flushed. If you didn't want me then, you do now.  But I don't know what to do with that. I really don't._

"Hmm?" Mycroft rolled his shoulders, then glanced toward him with the barest flick of his eyes.  Glancing down at the teacup in his hand, Lestrade used his wand to change the liquid for a shot of whiskey, which he threw back to brace himself.

In the depths of Lestrade’s mind, the beetle that had been snapped up by his protective malinois crumbled into dust, emitting a puff of powder, a wisp of thought.

_Jealous._

Lestrade considered his next move very carefully. He squinted at Mycroft's averted eyes, his flushed face, his rolled up sleeves.

"Were you really-" he began, and then stopped, biting his lip and rubbing at his cheek.  "I've no right to ask, have I?"

Mycroft turned his head partway toward Lestrade to smile. There was something genuine about it, a warmth and a connection his earlier smiles had been lacking.

"Not really," he said.  Then, looking away from him again Mycroft added, "Perhaps."

"I mean- I always thought it was- in character, for you. In keeping with your habits,” Lestrade said, his words halting, his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s expression, keen to any response.  “You were- probably the best prefect in the history of the school. Or at least the most enthusiastic about rule-keeping."

Lestrade never had this much trouble talking to women. Of course, he didn't usually talk very much. Just smiled, made chivalrous gestures, let them think what they wanted.

"I guess what I'm attempting to say is, ah-"  He paused, tugging at the open collar of his shirt.

"I hope you really are flattered. And not, you know. Contemptuous. Or at least not entirely so.”  Lestrade paused again, clearing his throat before murmuring, “A little contempt, I can handle. Probably."  

He’d had fantasy-Mycroft in his brain, snarling abuse at him for the better part of an hour, but actual _real_ contempt was a dish that would be much harder to swallow.

Mycroft glanced at him again, and then he leaned forward to place his own teacup upon the silver tray on the coffee table and stood, his long, lean frame unfolding in a whisper of fine fabric as he idly tapped  his wand against his bare forearm. He glanced up at the ceiling as he paced around to the other side of the coffee table before tucking  his wand into  his belt and slipping both hands into his pockets, turning to gaze at Lestrade with his pale, limpid eyes.

"I _am_ flattered, Gregory," he murmured.

 _Hang on,_ Lestrade thought, heat rising to his face. _Why does my name sound good when he says it?_

His full given name, even.  The Slytherin boys in Lestrade's year had been entirely too quick to start referring to him as Gregory the Smarmy. He'd been surname only from second year on, to everyone, even girls he was shagging. John was allowed to call him Greg. Sally, also. Anderson, sometimes.  Not even his mother called him “Gregory.”

_And since when are Mycroft Holmes and I on a first name basis?_

He flashed back to moments earlier. _Soft lips that taste like sugar-_

_Well. Kissing. Or nearly kissing, anyhow._

"Flattered enough for dinner?" Lestrade ventured. He was nothing if not daring. "Or just enough to not press a harassment suit?"

_In for a knut, in for a galleon._

Mycroft arched a brow at him.

" _Really_ , I-"  Mycroft had started to rock on his toes again, and the smile he'd given as he spoke was not an entirely nice one, his tone slipping toward overly pleasant. Lestrade had the distinct impression that Mycroft had been about to say something cutting and had stopped himself. His hands were still in his pockets, his mind still tightly closed.  His body language was so easy to read at that moment, Sherlock would not have praised him for the leap in logic.  The elder Holmes was clearly on the defensive.

Looking away from him briefly, the tip of Mycroft’s tongue brushed across his lips. Then he exhaled a hard breath, a sigh.  "I think it's too soon to tell," he murmured at last.

"Considering I've nursed a schoolboy crush since I was literally a schoolboy, can't blame a bloke for trying," Lestrade said, his own expression one of disappointed resignation lightly masked by polite humor.

_He thinks I'm still a slut, and I really can't help myself.  Wonderful. Good job, Lestrade. Splinched yourself very well, here._

"Back to work, then?” Lestrade continued aloud, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful.  “Evaluation all done, and follow up training besides. Thank you very much, Mycroft. I'm under the impression your time is exceedingly valuable, and I'm pleased I merited it."

Mycroft's expression did not change - he was as good at schooling it as Sherlock, that was clear - but his lips did part briefly before he pressed them back into a tight line.  Then he was moving around the table again and drawing a small silvery case from the pocket of his waistcoat, flicking it open and pulling out a white card.

"There are anti-Apparition spells protecting this office," he explained, holding one of the cards out to Lestrade. "But you may visit the outer office by the Floo Network, using this command."  More hesitantly he added, "If you... want more practice."

Lestrade stared blankly at Mycroft for a moment before plucking the card from his fingers, brows lifted, dark eyes wide as he examined it.  The card was of some thick, fine material, like stiff linen, and appeared completely plain until tilted into the light.  Then a silvery image appeared on the card; a raven superimposed with Mycroft’s initials, and beneath it  line of gibberish that would have made sense to no one without the explanation.

Lestrade’s heart hammered in his chest, his throat tightening with emotion.   _Regret?  Hope?  He hesitated._

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed, gazing up at Mycroft for a moment before he set aside his own teacup and stood.  His robe, as he picked it up from the back of the chair where it had been discarded, shimmered. Shifted.

A trench. Gray, as Bogart's had been in the black and white film. Really, it had been tan, but gray matched his hair, and light gray, in particular, matched his morals.

_Good sign._

Lestrade closed his eyes as he took Mycroft's card, and touched it lightly to his lips before sliding it into the inner breast pocket of his new coat.

"I'll definitely want more practice," he assured Mycroft, his voice sounding- rather markedly determined.  He was willing to try harder, if that’s what was required to warrant the attention of Mycroft Holmes.  Besides, as he reflected back on his time in Mycroft’s office… the practice had been rather pleasant.  Really.

Mycroft inclined his head as he stepped away from him, both hands slipping back into his pockets.

"Good evening, Mr. Lestrade," he said.

"Not as good as it has been," Lestrade sighed, heading for the door.  "But I'm sure it'll be fine. Enjoy your scallops.."

_I love reading a person's dinner plans. Even better than breakfast for telling what sort they are.  As usual, Mycroft Holmes. Very posh._

He slid out the door, making his way down the corridor toward the PA’s office, his steps unusually light.  He felt quite young again, for the second time this evening, except this time he was more buoyant than embarrassed, each step seeming to lead him further into the stratosphere until he felt he might never get his head out of the clouds.  Mycroft wanted to see him again.  He didn’t want to have dinner with him, but he _did_ want to see him again, and that was something.  A whole lot of something.  He hadn’t felt this lightheaded since the first time a girl had slipped him a note in Arithmancy.

  
Anthea (not-Anthea) was already gone by the time he stepped into the outer office, and he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be able to find his way back out of the round room.  But Mycroft’s card gave him access to the Floo Network from this office, and so Lestrade could step into the green flames, state his address, and emerge directly into his own home, a second-story flat above a quiet side-street in London, where the white noise of traffic on the main road, the sound of the beating heart of the city, could lull him to sleep every night.


	4. Love, Take Me To Your Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wondered if the tea made it count as a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut commences at this point, so I added a bunch of tags I thought would be relevant. I wasn't sure how to classify the retreat into teenage fantasies, so I tagged it "ageplay." If you came for that and expected something different, I apologize. If the fantasy aspect makes you uncomfortable, I also apologize. It won't happen again after this chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much to all the people who stuck with me, and stuck with this fic. I appreciate you more than you know.

"Are you going on a date?"

Lestrade's dark eyes shifted from where they'd been examining his own reflection in the frosted glass that surrounded the bullpen of the Auror office, the hand he'd been using to smooth back his forelock still hovering just above his brow. His gaze settled on the broadly grinning reflection of the woman who'd addressed him before, clearing his throat, he straightened and turned toward Sally, trying to marshal his expression into his soberest, most forbidding look.

"Am I what?"

"You are, aren't you?" Sally's voice lilted with delight, her eyes sparkling, the pink tip of her tongue caught between the bright white teeth of her smile before she turned her head and called, "Hey, Anderson, guess what?"

"I am not going on a date," came Lestrade's sharp retort, his arms folding staunchly across his chest. Technically it was true. He wasn't. He didn't know exactly what it was that he and Mycroft Holmes had been doing for the past week and a half, but dating it wasn't.

Sally's eyes swept over him from head to toe, taking in his polished shoes, his crisply pressed trousers, the dark shirt he wore with the top button unfastened, the smooth salt-and-pepper hair he'd been fussing with the moment before. Her smile faded, but the light in her eyes remained undiminished. She inclined her head, her lips pursing as she examined him for a beat longer before she agreed, "Sure." And then, looking as smug as a cat that had eaten a pixie, she turned and began to sashay away. Undoubtedly straight toward Anderson's desk, where she'd be free to gossip away about her suspicions.

Lestrade checked the chronograph on his wrist, and then glanced up toward the one on the wall, where a great number of slender hands with fuzzy black and white images swung back and forth between "on shift" and "on call," "in the office" and "patrol." Thankfully none were in the red sector marked "in danger," but there were several at "St. Mungo's" and a handful "on leave." In the midst of the array he could see his own face staring back at him, hovering on the precipice between “on shift” and “on call,” thin-lipped and dark-eyed and grim, but not so silver as he was now. He wondered, not for the first time, why Mycroft seemed interested in him.

Not that he didn't consider himself handsome. He didn't have the cult following of Gilderoy Lockhart, but he was no slouch. But he knew that Mycroft was as clever as he was private, smarter even than Sherlock, who had dismissed Lestrade as an idiot on a number of occasions. And their meetings were... well. They weren't dates. Not precisely. Though he was hoping, with a little persuasion, he could get them moving in that direction. He started to turn back toward the glass to check his reflection again before he noticed Sally and Anderson watching keenly from afar, the former perched atop the latter's desk, and then Lestrade turned on his heel to head back to his own office, feeling warmth climbing into his face.

His office was a utilitarian affair, nothing like Mycroft’s opulent surroundings, the cramped space dominated by a tanker desk, the wooden top of which was obscured beneath stacks of loose papers and dog-eared files and empty coffee mugs he had yet to tidy up. His gray trench coat was draped over the back of the chair, and with a final glance at the chrono, he picked up the coat and reached into the breast pocket for the oblong piece of cardstock, which never seemed to crease or fade from shining white, no matter how many times he handled it.

Which was often.

He and Mycroft had developed something of a protocol, and while Lestrade was planning to deviate from it during the course of the evening, for the moment he kept in line. He turned the card over in his fingers as he moved to stand before the most recent addition to his office, a small gilt raven all but hidden in a corner of his bookshelf, reaching out with his mind even as he stretched out a hand to lay his index finger upon the small statue, slipping through the relative quiet of the Occlumens-trained minds of the Auror office and into the cacophony of thought that always filled the Ministry, a nonstop mental white noise akin to the racket of a Quidditch match, seeking the strange stillness of Mycroft’s carefully shielded mind.  
  
And there it was, like a pool so motionless and dark its surface was like a glassy mirror, undetectable if one didn’t know what he was looking for. A single wisp of thought was left unfettered as a point of contact, a single golden kernel standing sentinel at the water’s edge.  
  
_Are you busy?_

What had seemed little more than a jewel stirred at the question, antennae unfurling, smooth stiff elytra splitting apart so membranous hind wings could buzz an answer.

_Not at all._

Lestrade focused his vision on the card, tilting it so that the hidden text on the back could catch the light enough to appear. The password had changed three times since Mycroft had given it to him, the current key causing a wry smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Ganymede.”

One dizzying jolt later, and he was standing in Mycroft’s outer office, staring down at his pretty dark-haired secretary. She didn’t even bother to look up as he appeared from thin air in front of her desk, nor did she look up at the memo pad hovering to her left, with a quill that drew lazy loops even as he glanced at it. Instead, continuing to studiously examine her nails as she filed them, she murmured, “Mr. Holmes will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, the way he always said it, as he turned away from her. He fought the urge to fuss at his hair or his clothing as he walked down the dark corridor, past the strange tapestries, beneath the gaze of that single burning eye. As he approached, the latch in the door to Mycroft’s office clicked, and the heavy wooden portal swung slowly open.  
  
Mycroft stood on the opposite side of the room, leaning with one elbow against the book case, a leaded crystal tumbler filled with a finger or two of some amber-colored spirit poised in his hand. He was dressed in navy pinstripes, and had already absconded with his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, and for a moment Lestrade thrilled quietly at the sight of his pale, bare forearms. And then their gazes met, and Lestrade could see that whatever had been occupying Mycroft had taxed him; he looked tired, and the smile he offered was pinched. But there was a stiffness to his posture that loosened when his eyes met Lestrade’s. Even if he couldn’t discuss whatever assignment was plaguing him, at the very least he seemed to welcome Lestrade’s company.

Mycroft gestured to the sofa, and Lestrade moved to sit upon it. When Mycroft offered him tea, Lestrade accepted. It was a part of their arrangement. Anthea did not even need to be summoned anymore. She would arrive, like clockwork, with the silver tea tray, and once Lestrade was settled, they would begin.

He wondered if the tea made it count as a date.

Mycroft stepped away from the bookshelf and moved toward his desk, his shoes (possibly Italian, undoubtedly expensive) whispering across the lush carpet before he stretched out his hand to the file folder that lay open upon his desk and brushed it closed. Even in the scant moment Lestrade looked at it, his vision seemed to go oddly blurry, and he gave his head a shake to clear it before glancing elsewhere. Not for his eyes, then. Literally.

“Rough day, was it?” asked Lestrade, shifting his weight on the sofa. Mycroft hummed a vague affirmation, then tipped his head back to drain the contents of the glass in his hand before setting it on the edge of the desk. In the next moment, Anthea appeared (and that wasn’t her real name, Lestrade reached in a mild attempt to snatch the truth from her consciousness and, to his amusement, found his mental probe swiftly swatted), set the tea tray down before Lestrade, and then retreated, pausing near the doorway.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Holmes?”

“No, that will be all, thank you. You needn’t wait up for us. We’ll be working late.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Lestrade,” she added politely, before slipping out the door and drawing it shut behind her.

Lestrade slid to the edge of his seat so that he could pour for himself, and for Mycroft, even if he wasn’t sure whether Mycroft would even want a cup. He automatically added sugar and cream to the other man’s tea. He had a good memory and didn’t need to be particularly observant to pick up on those little details. Still, it earned a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, before he retrieved the cup of tea and withdrew, as he always did, to the fireplace. He hadn’t sat on the couch with Lestrade since that first heady evening.

“Ready?” Mycroft leaned against the dark-tiled mantelpiece, eyeing Lestrade over the rim of his cup. Lestrade took a deep breath, nodding once, before Mycroft’s mind crashed against his with the stunning force of a hammer-strike. Without touching, they nonetheless embraced, and plunged into the darkness together.

_“Always the same time, always the same dungeon,” Mycroft huffed in disgust, as the scampering footfalls of Lestrade’s latest foiled conquest faded from the corridor outside. “If you had half the sense God gave a dog--”_

_“I do have half the sense God gave a dog,” Lestrade retorted cheekily, still trying to set his clothing in order, the unclasped buckle of his belt chiming as he zipped up his fly. “That’s why I’m always down here.”_

_“Five points from Gryffindor,” Mycroft shot back, his voice sharp and cold. “Shall we make it ten?”_

_“Aw, come on, Holmes.” Lestrade was moving toward him this time, and Mycroft seemed taken aback, from the way his brows lifted, his long, lean form pressing back against the door frame. “If you keep taking points because of me, the boys’ll have my hide. Come on. Let me do something for you. If I’m good enough, maybe I can even earn those points back.”_

_Mycroft’s lip curled back from his teeth in a sneer. “What could you possibly do for me?”_

_“Let me show you,” said Lestrade. He reached out to loosen Mycroft’s tie and got his hand slapped for the effort, but the sudden sting only made him chuckle. Heaven forbid Prefect Holmes look mussed for even a minute. He could feel the heat in his face and knew he was blushing, his fingers shaking despite the boldness of the gesture as he unfastened Mycroft’s robe and skimmed his fingertips down the front of his crisply pressed shirt, hooking them under his belt and giving it a tug. “Let me show you.”_

_Mycroft was still as stone, his eyes blazing, his wand in his hand. But he did not move or speak, not even when nimble fingers began to unfasten his belt. Lestrade had to rock up onto his toes a little to press a kiss to the underside of Mycroft’s jaw-- he still had a year or two of growing left-- before leaning into him, their chests brushing, his hips angled out to give his hands plenty of room to work. “Let me show you,” Lestrade murmured again. He pulled at Mycroft’s belt, leather hissing against fabric as it came loose in his hand._

_“You are utterly depraved,” Mycroft muttered. But his voice had lost most of its venom, his expression less angry and more bewildered. The silver malinois was somewhere, somewhere close, but this time it wasn’t hunting. Instead it lay content and quiescent, its form bedecked with iridescent insects._

_Lestrade’s fingers worked loose the button and slid down the zip of Mycroft’s trousers, and then he slipped his hand inside, an almost feral grin curving his mouth as he took the warmth of Mycroft’s sex into his palm. He hummed a query, giving the trapped flesh a squeeze, and Mycroft’s eyes fluttered half shut._

_“Tell me to stop, then,” Lestrade challenged. When Mycroft didn’t answer, he nodded his head, and slowly dropped down to his knees._

_It was dark in Dungeon Five. That was part of the reason he’d chosen it for his first tryst, and every one afterward. The mildew-scented clammy darkness wasn’t exactly the most romantic setting, but it kept his blush hidden, hid other insecurities and heightened the senses until even the shyest of companions found themselves emboldened by the shadows. But he didn’t need to see Mycroft to appreciate him. It should have been surprising how hard he was, and how swiftly, except Lestrade himself was already aching, could feel a damp spot in his undershorts beginning to spread. He tugged Mycroft’s clothing down over his narrow hips just enough to give him freedom of movement, and then let his cheek rest against Mycroft’s warm skin, just shy of the thatch of his pubic hair, breathing in the scent of his arousal._

_“Tell me to stop,” said Lestrade. Mycroft said nothing._

_In truth, his teenage self had known little of this, and would have shied from it. But this version of Lestrade had no difficulty in pressing his lips to the head of Mycroft’s cock, both hands encircling the stiff flesh to coax and squeeze until precious moisture graced his lips and he could lap up the subtly bitter fluid with a quick swipe of his tongue. Mycroft’s breathing grew louder, more erratic, as Lestrade’s lips parted to pull a portion, just the swollen velvety tip, into the wet heat of his mouth, allowing his tongue to swirl around it, lathing it with affection._

_(Unseen fingers pulled at the corners of his mind and Lestrade brushed them gently away. Distracting. Let him focus.)_

_Ignoring the now-steady throb of his own arousal, Lestrade slowly worked Mycroft’s thick length into his mouth, inch by glorious inch, until its girth pinned his tongue beneath it. His head bobbed slowly at first, letting slip an inch or two, only to reclaim it in one swift, fluid motion. The chamber was silent now, aside from Mycroft’s labored breathing, though the occasional wet slurp slipped from the seam between Lestrade’s mouth and Mycroft’s cock whenever he broke suction. As he took him steadily deeper, one of his hands shifted to push Mycroft’s shirttails up and aside, so that in the dim light of the luminous moss that clung to the ceiling, Mycroft could catch glimpses of his spit-slick length vanishing into Lestrade’s mouth, Lestrade’s hollowed cheeks, the occasional flash of his upturned eyes._

_“You,” began Mycroft, breathless. He was winding up for another insult, but struggled to find the words through the red haze that had settled over his mind. “Mmm-hmm,” Lestrade hummed in agreement, nodding his head in a way that made Mycroft exhale a sharp hiss. But when Mycroft grabbed a fistful of his hair, a tremor danced down Lestrade’s spine, his hand clutching reflexively at Mycroft’s stomach, blunt nails dragging in a light scrape across his skin. And then came pressure, and Lestrade’s unoccupied hand jerked from Mycroft’s cock to Mycroft’s hip, not to stop him, just to get out of his own way. He did his best to swallow what he could, dropping his jaw wider, the flush on his cheeks burning bright onto his ears and down onto the nape of his neck, until the tip of his nose brushed against the dark curls at the base of Mycroft’s cock, his throat closing around the bell end with an audible click. A sweet, shivering groan spilled from Mycroft’s lips, and Lestrade flexed his fingers against Mycroft’s hip, breath stilled and eyes stinging, until the pressure of the grip in his hair relaxed and he could draw his head back with a raw gasp, Mycroft’s erection slipping free of his lips with a wet pop, his lips still bound to it by a few thin, glistening strings of excess saliva. He was dizzy with pleasure and oxygen deprivation, his whole body alive and pulsing with need, all too eager to swallow Mycroft back into that greedy mouth without a second thought, again and again._

Lestrade opened his eyes, part of his mind still away, and very much occupied, while the rest was very much present to observe the room in which he was physically in, warmly lit by lamps of amber-colored glass, the aroma of the tea mingling with the delicate scent of the orchids. Mycroft stood with his side to him, one hand resting on the mantel, the other lightly grasping his cup of tea, his thumb stroking restlessly along the rim. Lestrade rose slowly from his seat, exhaling a little grunt before glancing down at the front of his tented trousers. Well, he couldn’t be completely immune, even knowing good and well that what was happening was happening in his-- their-- heads. Still moving slowly, he approached Mycroft, close enough to watch his eyes move beneath his eyelids, close enough to reach out and rest his palm atop the hand on the mantel. Skin-to-skin contact only seemed to make the imagined sensations more intense as he

_redoubled his efforts, shameless. He needed Mycroft to finish, needed to taste him, spurred on by the hungry little sounds Mycroft kept making. Mycroft had pressed his knuckles against his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound, but couldn’t stifle them entirely, and when he raked his fingers through Lestrade’s hair on a particularly long, deep swallow and choked out an, “Oh, Gregory,” it was a wonder Lestrade didn’t come in his pants right then and there._

_The wash of biting flavor across his tongue was a warning. Mycroft’s hips moved in needy, erratic jerks, and that was a warning, too. Lestrade took Mycroft deep into his mouth a final time, let his throat lurch shut around the head of his cock with a muted gag before he drew back and took hold of him in both hands, stroking his turgid spit-slick flesh, gazing up at him with feverish eyes, greedy for every expression that might flit across his face. He couldn’t see if Mycroft was flushed, but he didn’t doubt it, as fair-skinned as he was. He couldn’t see much, but there was enough light to see the incredulity that widened Mycroft’s eyes as he gazed down at Lestrade for a moment, and then his head rolled back and his mouth fell open, his whole body trembling, and, twitching and pulsing in Lestrade’s palms, his cock poured thick, hot seed into Lestrade’s waiting mouth._  
  
_Mycroft made a sound in the back of his throat, low and guttural, half-slumping against the doorframe, his lean thighs shuddering. Lestrade gulped down the first bitter flood, stroking and squeezing as if to milk every last drop from him before Mycroft abruptly snatched him up by the collar of his robe, starting to drag him to his feet with shaking hands._

_“Come here,” he rasped. “Quickly.” And when he dipped his head to crush his lips to Lestrade’s, Lestrade’s mouth was still filled with the salt-tanged morass of his seed, the taste of it mingling between them as their tongues entwined._

In reality, there was no flavor on their tongues save the flavor of tea, and the faintest lingering note of cognac. Lestrade hadn’t _entirely_ intended to end up kissing Mycroft again, but this close to him, in the midst of the fantasy, caused a magnetism that was difficult to deny. His hand had come to rest lightly on Mycroft’s waist, body pressed close, close enough to smell the silk of his suit, the subtle aroma of his cologne, the warmth of his skin. The teacup fell from Mycroft’s nerveless fingers, tepid fluid splashing along Lestrade’s pantleg on the way down before he was seized in a powerful embrace, his body pressed hard against Mycroft’s with all of the taller man’s wiry strength, one hand knotting in his close-cropped hair, his tongue plunging deep into Lestrade’s mouth.

Rocking up onto his toes, limbs gone shiveringly rigid, Lestrade felt a powerful throb of pleasure, and a damp warmth spreading slowly over the front of his trousers. And then, just as abruptly as Mycroft had grabbed him, he was pushed away, and the gates to Mycroft’s consciousness sprang shut like a steel trap.

It was as if Lestrade were alone in the room. The sudden lack of mental chatter was as deafening as a thunderclap, so absolute that for a shocked moment, Lestrade thought Mycroft had somehow cut off his own ability. And then, as he held on to the mantel to keep his balance, he could feel the distant chatter of hundreds of minds, working. Only Mycroft’s had gone so utterly silent.  
  
Mycroft’s lean hands smoothed down the front of his waistcoat, gave it a tug to straighten it. Then he drew a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, clicked it open, and addressed the watch as he murmured, “You should go.”

“Mycroft,” Lestrade began to protest, using his grip on the mantelpiece to leverage himself to a more upright position.

“That is enough for today!” Mycroft’s voice rose slightly, and sharpened, his brilliant eyes like chips of glass gleaming from his flushed visage. He drew a shaking breath, snapped the pocket watch shut, and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. “Good evening, Mr. Lestrade.”

For a moment Lestrade stood there, blinking at him, and the sinking feeling in the pit of his chest was utterly at odds with the honeyed warmth that had seeped to every other part of his body. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, at all. Was it still feasible to ask him to dinner?

“With all due respect,” began Lestrade, “you can’t just--”

But he was cut off abruptly when Mycroft snapped a hand out toward him, with all the vicious speed of a serpent’s strike, and in a dizzying whirl of sensation he was back in his office, and with a ripping pop, Mycroft was gone.  
  
Lestrade stood in the center of his office, hands held out helplessly at his sides. It felt colder here than it had before, or maybe that was the wetness cooling in his pants. He glanced down at himself and swore under his breath before he moved to grab the trench from the back of his chair and pulled it on with quick, jerky movements. If he buttoned it up, no one would be the wiser. But for a moment he just stood there with his jacket hanging open, staring down at the floor as if he could see through each of the levels and down into the Department of Mysteries itself. When he reached for Mycroft, he couldn’t find him, not even the strange quiet of his presence, nary a scarab to be found. Lestrade tucked his hand into the breast pocket of his trench and withdrew the card that always seemed to find its way back there, gazing at the front for a moment before flipping the card over to look at the back. No matter which way he tipped it, the subtle silvery letters of the passkey did not appear.


	5. Heart's a Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth was that, despite the intensity of their communion over the past fortnight, he really didn’t know Mycroft very well. And if he was going to have any answers, he could think of only one place to find them.

Lestrade sat on the edge of his bed in the cool darkness of his flat, his forearms draped across his knees, turning the smooth stiffness of Mycroft’s card over and over in his hands.  In the muted golden light that filtered through the thin curtains from the streetlamps outside, Lestrade examined the card.  _M Holmes_ , it said, when he tipped it at one angle.  No address, no office number.  As he slowly tilted it, the silvery letters gave way to the silhouettes of two ravens facing away from each other, something like a coat of arms.  When he tilted it a little further, the password should have appeared.  It didn’t.

For the last four days he’d stood in his office at the end of his shift, one fingertip resting atop the small gilt raven on his bookshelf, his mind reaching, stretching deep into the sub levels of the Ministry, past minds both brilliant and boring, seeking the stillness that should have been there.  He tripped across dozens of minds

_Subject: Sadie Clanghan, Department: Magical Games and Sports, preoccupied with mother’s illness in the midst of signing documentation to approve a new line of sport brooms for Quidditch._

_Subject: Cormac Wintringham, Department: International Magical Cooperation, Position: Intern, at that moment quite smug about having served decaf instead of caffeinated coffee to the British seats over some perceived slight from the previous day_

_Subject: Anthea (not-Anthea), mind humming along on the surface level with an idle pattern of thoughts that would mollify any Legilimens sensitive enough to pick up the mental noise of those around them without probing, the pretty facade on a safe-house that hid how well her mind was shielded._

Of Mycroft, there was nothing.  It was impossible for Lestrade to tell if the man was in the Ministry at all.

Lestrade drew a deep breath as he straightened, tucking the stiff white card against the curve of his palm.  Mycroft _had_ been interested, hadn’t he?  He’d given Lestrade the card, and the pass code, in open invitation.  He’d been the one to initiate all of this.  It stung Lestrade to think that perhaps Mycroft’s interest had only been sexual, and yet he _really_ didn’t seem the sort.  If his interest in Lestrade had merely been physical, why had he reacted so poorly to being kissed?  Was there something about his intellectual nature that caused him to be repulsed by physical contact?

Mycroft Holmes was a mystery Lestrade just couldn’t puzzle out.  And in the past when he’d run up on something that seemed beyond his capabilities, well.  He ran his hand across his face as he considered it, but no other solution sprang to mind.  The truth was that, despite the intensity of their communion over the past fortnight, he really didn’t know Mycroft very well.  And if he was going to have any answers, he could think of only one place to find them.

Standing up, Lestrade picked up his coat from the end of the bed and slipped into it, tucking the white card back into his breast pocket.  And then, fixing a location in his mind that had been so warmly familiar in the past, he Disapperated.

When he popped back into being in another flat in a different part of town, it was with the sensation of just having tumbled through dozens of curtains of sticky cobwebs and such a blast of emotion and sensation that, had it been sound, he would have been deafened.  Heat and pleasure and  _ah yes_  and adoration and shock and fear and anger--  His mind barely had time to register the sound of wings echoing toward the darkened living room from the even darker kitchen before Sherlock Holmes suddenly appeared before him, his lean limbs bare and ghostly pale, a wand in his hand.  His hair was a mess of tangled glossy curls that tumbled across his brow and fell to nearly touch his shoulders, his cheeks touched with spots of hectic color, his pale eyes ablaze with sudden fury. A split second of recognition stilled whatever hex had been on Sherlock's lips, and then he threw his hands into the air with a snarl of exasperation. "Oh, it's  _you._ "

"Lestrade!"  John sounded only marginally less irate, knotting the belt of a worn blue-gray bathrobe around his waist as he limped through the cluttered kitchen toward them.  His face was lined as a man’s of his age should not have been, and Lestrade could well recall how the years without Sherlock had drawn the life from him, but in that moment he looked well and truly robust, with a ruddy flush splashed across his cheeks and a swiftly reddening kiss-mark on his collarbone.  Lestrade glanced back and forth between them before clearing his throat.

“I’ve interrupted, haven’t I?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock replied, the deep rasp of his voice laced with venom.  Lestrade was suddenly filled with the urge to embrace him.  He’d known, of course, but _seeing_ him again...

“I’ve torn through a dozen protections, at least,” Lestrade continued, waving a hand before his face to brush that cobwebby feeling away, focusing his attention back on why he’d come.  “Sorry.  You’ll be half an hour or more setting them back up.  Can I talk to John while you do?  It’s... a bit urgent.”

“You are a rampaging _cockblock,”_ John hissed at him, almost under his breath, before he took in Lestrade’s forlorn expression, and all traces of anger faded from his face.  “Oh.  You’re actually upset about something.  Er.  Sherlock?”

With a huff, Sherlock turned away from them both, lifting his wand to begin to trace patterns into the empty air.  Lestrade allowed his eyes to slip down Sherlock’s naked back, momentarily distracted.  He’d lost at least two or three stone, and there hadn’t been much of him to begin with.  And... there were fresh welts clawed down the length of his back.  Clearing his throat again, Lestrade quickly turned away.

He followed John into the kitchen, where he gently nudged aside two coffee cups and some complex glass apparatus before leaning against the edge of the counter.  John switched on the light that hung over the kitchen table, filling the cluttered space with its diffuse bluish glow before folded his arms across his chest and resting his good hip against the edge of the kitchen table, watching him.

“So?  Let’s have it, then.”

“I have a problem,” said Lestrade.  He dropped his voice almost to a whisper, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye.  “I have a very difficult problem, John.”

“What sort of problem?”  John refused to play along and whisper. 

“A Mycroft problem.”  Lestrade let his lips form the words without giving voice to them.  He could hear Sherlock murmuring as he set the wards, but he could also feel the weight of the man’s curiosity on them, like a searchlight spilling across two fugitives in the night.  John stared blankly at him for a moment, his lips moving as he tried to sound out the words for himself, but as soon as he puzzled them out, his body gave a slight jolt against the table, his eyebrows jerking upward.

“How would you end up with a--”

“Shh!” Lestrade hushed him frantically.   "Look, as soon as I knew _he_ was back,” said Lestrade, jerking his head toward the man in the other room, “Mycroft knew. He had himself assigned to do my evals."

"So? You're a good cop,” John said.  "I fail to see the problem--"

“I wanked to him."

"Pardon?"

"From fourth year on.  Almost constantly.  Every time he'd catch me with one of those girls--"

"Five more points Dimmock and I had to knock down in the next match," John reminded him.

"--he'd catch me and I'd feel so very... Anyway, I wanked to him.  For  _years_.  Secretly."

Sherlock knocked into something in the living room, cleared his throat, and continued muttering.

"And how did this--" John paused, then paled. "You're a Legilimens."

"You know, being buggered every night by a genius has done wonders for your brain over the years, John."

“Stuff it,” huffed John, a fresh hint of a flush settling across his cheeks.  “So you’re a Legilimens, and he had to evaluate you on that.  Because if anyone else did it, they’d find out about Sherlock.”

“Exactly,” said Lestrade.  And then he heaved out a sigh, scrubbing at his face with both hands before he continued, “He saw it.  Every dirty little fantasy, every wank, every bit of it, all of it, right out in the open where he could get his hands on it, and what does he do?  _Uses_ it.  Encourages it.  Gets me so hot I can’t think straight and proves to me I can’t hide Sherlock.”

“You’d never give Sherlock up,” John protested.

“Ordinarily, no,” Lestrade agreed.  “To Mycroft?  Instantly.”

The cobwebby feeling swept over Lestrade again, though far less intensely this time, as shield after shield was settled in place.  At the same time, Lestrade felt a barely perceptible but now-familiar fluttery sensation that seemed to be just inside his skull, over his temple.  Mycroft, checking on him?  No.  Sherlock.  Being  _nosy_.  Sherlock was rewarded for his trouble by the low growl of a dangerous dog inside his head, as though it were behind him, ready to spring, and Lestrade batted his mental hand away.

“And then there was the bit where he kissed me.”

_“Mycroft_  kissed you?”  This time, John was careful to whisper his name.

“He was all over me, mentally in my head, physically in my space- it was Isabella Martine all over again, only this time, Heaven help me, I  _wanted_  it."

Two more shields rushed over Lestrade like a blast of cool air, and then a third, before there was a pause in Sherlock's muttering.  Lestrade could imagine him if he tried, standing there in his tiny pants with a petulant look on his face.  Merlin’s beard, it was good to have him alive.  John looked more alive, too, bright-eyed and alert, his head tipped to one side as he fixed Lestrade with a studious look.  Sherlock resumed chanting, and Lestrade was brushed with another shield.  He was casting them faster now, probably so he could try eavesdropping without being distracted.

"What did you  _do_?" John demanded.

"I threw up every shield I had. My Patronus manifested in my semi-conscious, John, I was  _that_  desperate to try and keep a shield up, he was--"  Lestrade could feel his pulse picking up just from remembering it, blood rushing to his face, and to other parts of his anatomy.  His palms were damp, his pupils were dilated.  “He was  _amazing_. I've never resisted anyone on his level before. And I did resist him, eventually.”

“How?”

“He got aroused,” Lestrade murmured, his voice soft and wonder-struck, his chin dipped toward his chest, his eyes lifted to gaze at John.  “I got  _him_  so hot he gave up.  So I passed my evals, but then we’ve been... meeting.”

John’s brows drew together, a deep furrow appearing between them.  “Meeting.”

“Yes, _meeting._ ”  Lestrade let out an exasperated breath, running his hand across the back of his neck.  “We... it’s hard to explain.  But we were meeting every day until just a few days ago, and now I can’t sense him at all.”

One more shield made it seven.  Sherlock was more than halfway done, now moving around the living room as he cast.  His body was silhouetted in the golden light from the streetlamps below as he paced back and forth. Eight, then nine. He was in the home stretch, moving more quickly.

“What happened?” John asked.

“We ended up kissing again.  Then he drew back.”  Lestrade buried his hands in his hair.  “I don't know how to do this, John.  I don't know how to do it in this way.  With... with _them_.  With their minds and their chess and their posturing and their moods... How do you live this way, John?  Doesn't he drive you mad?  How can he not?"

“So- you've interrupted our night in to ask me for advice in the realm of  _courting a Holmes_ ,” John said, his voice dripping with incredulity.  But then he smiled, his expression kind, even as he gave his head a rueful shake.  “Just be yourself, Greg.”

“That's all you've got?” Lestrade asked, frowning.  “John, I don't think you understand the gravity of my situation.  _Mycroft_  isn't  _Sherlock_.  If anything, he's  _worse_ , because he's  _smarter_ , and even  _less_  sociable.”

“And you're more nervous than I've ever seen you,” John replied, smirking.  “Look, you're friends with Sherlock, aren't you?  Or as close to a friend as he’ll allow, anyway.  You know how he ticks.  With Mycroft, it's probably just a matter of being more subtle and more persistent.  Don't let him intimidate you.”

"But what if he keeps running away?” 

Folding his arms across his chest, Lestrade fixed his gaze on the floor.  He looked so vulnerable, John couldn't help but be sympathetic.  It was far too easy to recall his own struggles in getting past Sherlock’s prickly, mercurial exterior.  And in his experience, Mycroft had always been... less cutting, perhaps, but colder, and even more distant.  He was so enamoured of Sherlock, and all of his particular quirks, he couldn’t imagine nurturing a crush on the elder Holmes.

"It depends,” John said at last.  “How badly do you want this?”

Lestrade’s eyes flicked up to meet John’s, and then lowered to the floor again, his own brow furrowing, his lips pursing slightly.  He hadn't previously tried to figure out how much he actually cared for Mycroft Holmes, the man's opinion of him, or whether he just wanted sex-- which was wonderful and sometimes  _enough_ \-- or a real relationship, something kin to but completely different from what John had with Sherlock.  Or if what he wanted, outside of the haze of being a teenager, was what Ron Weasley had with Harry Potter, a deep, passionate friendship, with unfaltering trust and unending support, the kind of friendship that comes from shared experience and mutual understanding.  Lestrade loved John, loved him like a brother, but sometimes wished that he had, instead, someone who understood his  _work_.  All Aurors had to be at least passing proficient in Occlumency, the ability to shield one’s mind from being invaded or probed, but to be a Legilimens was a more uncommon thing, and it unnerved even some of the people he worked with.  The ones he’d encountered before had all been practitioners of the Dark Arts, and when they’d touched his mind, it was with the intent of shattering it.  Letting his mind twine with another’s, the way he had with Mycroft, without fear of harm, was not something he’d encountered before.  Even if it hadn’t been ages since he’d been in a relationship with _anyone_ , the usual rules didn’t apply.

"An excellent question," mumbled Lestrade.

“Are you still talking about my brother?” Sherlock asked from the doorway, spells and shields complete.  His eyes moved over Lestrade, examining him from head to toe, and then he clicked his tongue and sighed.  “Oh, dear.”

“Oh, go stuff yourself,” Lestrade shot back, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“Why are you wearing that, by the way?” John asked.  “It's hardly raining.”

“Humphrey Bogart,” Lestrade shrugged, still glaring in Sherlock's direction.  Sherlock’s features were undergoing an interesting series of contortions, from amused to disgusted and back to amused again.  Lestrade knew that Mycroft and his brother didn’t get on, but was fairly sure that Sherlock had started it all by being the first in a long, stately pureblood line of Ravenclaws to be sorted into Slytherin.  Everyone knew that no one got sorted into Slytherin unless they wanted to be.

“You don't look a bit like Humphrey Bogart,” said John.  “You look like a Muggle policeman.”

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Lestrade sighed, but he was grateful to John for changing the subject.

“Why does everyone say that?”

“I say,” Sherlock announced in a purring drawl, before stepping away from the doorway toward them, "if you really want advice about Mycroft Holmes--”  He could easily have walked the long way around the table, but instead chose to maneuver himself between them, gliding his fingers across John's stomach while his hip dragged across Lestrade's. “--you ought to ask  _me_ ," he concluded, walking toward the bedroom.

Lestrade stared after him for a moment before turning back to John as he asked, “Do you ever consider keeping a spray bottle?  To train him off the furniture, I mean.”

John didn't answer.  He was busy looking squinty, resentful and possessive.  Never mind that Lestrade hadn't  _done_ anything, or that  _Sherlock_  had been the one flirting with  _him._ John was not at his most logical when he was-- courting.  And he’d only just gotten Sherlock back, after all.  It occurred to Lestrade that visiting in the middle of the night had been a mistake.

“I’ll owl first next time,” Lestrade mumbled.

“You _think?”_ snapped John.

There was the sound of muffled swearing from the bedroom, and then Sherlock poked his head around the doorway.  “Do you happen to have a cigarette?”

“Sherlock--” John began, sounding testy, but Lestrade cut him off.

“Of course,” he said, tucking his hand into a pocket of his coat to withdraw a pack.  Shaking one loose into his palm, Lestrade held it up, pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger, but did not move any closer to offer it.

“One question: How often does your brother give out the code to his office lobby?”

Sherlock glanced back and forth between them, then sighed, vanishing back into the bedroom for a moment before re-emerging with his silk robe hung over his shoulders. He didn't tie it, which still left an awful lot of visible skin, but it was at least a nod toward propriety, hopefully enough to soothe John’s rankled nerves.  He paced toward them and plucked the cigarette from Lestrade’s grasp before he turned to look at John, an unexpected softness crossing his features.

“Do you mind waiting for me?  I'll only be a moment.”

John's brow was still tight, Lestrade noted, but the tension had melted out of him, and he no longer looked quite so ready to attack.

“No, go right ahead,” he grumbled, but there was no malice behind his grousing, his expression softening as well with the look Sherlock gave him.  “It wasn’t as if we had _plans_ , or anything.”  He brushed against Sherlock as passed, and as he stepped into the hallway he threw a look back over his shoulder at Lestrade that was so forbidding that it struck him as almost ridiculous.  He and John had been friends for years, and he’d never shown the least interest in Sherlock.  He really _would_ have to do something to make amends, Lestrade thought to himself, before turning back to Sherlock with a hopeful look. 

But Sherlock was standing with his head turned still, his eyes fixed on John, watching the smaller man until his form vanished around the doorway to the bedroom, until his unsteady footfalls faded into stillness.  And in that moment it occurred to Lestrade for the first time in a while-- perhaps for the first time ever-- that Sherlock loved him.  It had been apparent from the start that Sherlock loved _attention_ , and John had a way of fawning over his intelligence and slavishly following his orders that would have pleased anyone with half an ego.  It was also clear that John loved Sherlock, deeply and desperately.  But Sherlock was flighty, dismissive, haughty and sometimes cruel.  Softer emotions seemed beyond him.  There was no mistaking the warmth in him now, however, especially when he exhaled a rich chuckle and turned back to Lestrade with twinkling eyes.

“Don’t mind him,” he said.  “He’s all hopped up on testosterone.”

Then he moved to take over the space that John had previously occupied, tucking the butt of the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with a negligent brush of his fingertips as he leaned against the sturdy wooden table.  He took a deep drag before tipping his head back to exhale a long column of smoke toward the ceiling, which took on the form of half a dozen wispy woodland creatures before beginning to frolic silently around the kitchen light, their shapes slowly dissipating as they leaped to and fro.  Sherlock’s lip curled with disdain and he drew the cigarette from his mouth to scowl at it. 

“This is low tar.”

“I’m trying to cut back,” Lestrade admitted.

Tugging his robe more securely around his body, Sherlock gazed at Lestrade with his piercing pale eyes as he took another long draw from the cigarette.  This time when he exhaled, it was to give voice to a teasing little sing-song. 

“Gregory and Mycroft, sitting in a tree.”

“It's not that simple,” Lestrade retorted, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock replied, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked smile.  “It’s Mycroft.”

Lestrade exhaled a deep sigh.  “I don’t know how much you heard,” he said.  He’d have to choose his words more carefully with Sherlock than he had with John.  John was kind.  Sherlock was merciless.

“Mycroft found out I knew about you, or at least suspected it, so he took over my evals.  Took it on himself to test my Occlumency.  Found the crush I had on him at school, and made it into a very easy loophole to get at your secret.  He twisted me into a knot over it, but I drove him out of my head by hanging him with his own rope.”

He reached into his breast pocket to withdraw Mycroft’s card and held it out to Sherlock, who quickly seized it and began to examine it, his keen eyes shifting into a squint.  It was almost like colluding with him in a case again, except cases didn’t cause Lestrade’s heart to feel wedged so high up in his throat.

“He invited me back,” said Lestrade.  “Gave me that.  I don’t know why.”

Sherlock arched a brow at him.  “Someone invites you somewhere where you can be private, and you don’t know why?”

“If it were anyone other than Mycroft,” Lestrade said, his voice lingering on the name as though tasting it for poison.  “Anyone else, and I’d have been flattered, but that would have been the end of it.  But I’ve never mixed business with pleasure, and I’m not like I was in school anymore.” 

Sherlock handed the card back to him as he continued, “Besides, with Unspeakables... there’s always a catch.  So I thought... I don’t know what I thought.  I wasn’t thinking, maybe that’s the problem.  He invited me back, and I went back, until he... stopped inviting me.”

Sherlock inclined his head, gazing down at Lestrade along the bridge of his nose.  “You got too close,” he posited at last.

“I got too close,” Lestrade agreed.

For a while they occupied the kitchen in silence, Sherlock smoking and Lestrade staring down at the floor.  It was a companionable silence, broken only by the occasional distant shuffle of John in the bedroom and the sound of traffic in the street.  Lestrade didn’t make an attempt to reach out and touch Sherlock’s mind, but he didn’t need to.  He could practically _feel_ the man thinking.

“How many people do you think like us?” Sherlock queried at last, his features settling back into their usual mask of indifference as Lestrade glanced up at him; the shield under which he hid his emotions.  “How many respect what my brother and I can do?  And Mycroft is a mind-reader  _and_  an Unspeakable.  Do you think he's popular?  Do you think he’s _ever_ been popular?”

“Mycroft is brilliant,” said Lestrade.  “And _you’re_ brilliant, Sherlock, you know I think so.  I trust you with John, so... you know how I am about my friends.”

Sherlock snorted, but there was a marginal softening of his expression, an upward twitch at the corner of his mouth before he hid it behind his hand to take another drag of the cigarette.

“I don’t know him,” Lestrade admitted, gazing down at the white card he still held in his hand.  “I always wanted to, but I never felt... worthy.  Now, perhaps I’d started to, but...” 

Tucking the card back into his breast pocket, Lestrade lifted his gaze to Sherlock again as he continued, “Tell me the truth.  You know him better than anyone ever could.  Am I completely out of my depth?  Should I give up, and keep our relationship professional?”

“He was probably just surprised,” Sherlock said, flicking ashes from the cigarette onto the floor.  In his head, Lestrade doubled the cost of whatever gift he was going to give John to make up for interrupting in the middle of the night as Sherlock added, “Shocked.  And he’s much more forgiving than I am, so he won’t mind that you’re stupid.”

“I’m just a dog,” Lestrade huffed, rolling his eyes slightly, but good-natured nonetheless.  “A very well-trained, proficient _working_ dog, but nothing on your level.”

“ _Beyond_ overeager,” Sherlock agreed dryly.  “Prone to piddling on the rug.”

Lestrade frowned at him, but his mind was already leaping ahead, a hound coursing a stag, hot on the scent of the next revelation.  “I don’t understand why he would be surprised,” he said.  “Surely he’s had... partners.  He’s so _impressive._   You’ve got John, and you’re _insufferable._ At least Mycroft has manners.”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it with an audible click of his teeth coming together.  He pressed the cigarette against his lips as his eyes shifted toward the light spilling into the hallway from the open bedroom door.

“I got lucky with John,” he murmured at last.

  
“So long as you know it,” Lestrade agreed.  After a moment, he reached back into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes.  Sherlock smoking always made Lestrade want to smoke.  It was as contagious as a yawn.

“In this case, I’d say the lucky one was me,” he said.  “ _Was_ being the operative word.”

They smoked together in silence for a time, the fragrant fumes gathering along the ceiling to form a whole pastoral scene, whole families of rabbits and herds of sheep, trees that swayed in unseen breezes, all translucent and colorless, like ghosts.  Lestrade could hear the soft strains of music drifting down the hall from Sherlock's bedroom, the tinny voice of someone singing in French.  It was Sherlock who broke the silence first.

“You have to understand where he's coming from,” he said, flicking more ash onto the floor. “He's an Unspeakable, so he can't talk about his work. He can't really trust anyone. He was a prefect who adhered strictly to the rules and could tell exactly what you'd been up to just by looking at you. Despite what you may think, Mycroft Holmes is rather universally disliked.”

“He’s a good man, and a good wizard,” Lestrade said, his tone a little sharp, almost argumentative.  “He kept John safe during the Muggleborn Purges.  He does what I do, but he does it _better_.  I wish I had your gifts on top of my own.  I’d be a much more efficient Auror.”

Pushing himself away from the table, Sherlock sidled close to Lestrade to grind the tip of the cigarette on the edge of the sink, careful not to crumple it, clearly intending to light it again later.  Then he reached out suddenly, quick as a whip, cupping his hand against the back of Lestrade's head so his nails scratched briefly through Lestrade's cropped hair, stepping closer, holding his gaze.  He didn't have his wand with him, but he didn't  _need_  it. It was just flashes, quick flashes of image and thought as Sherlock sorted through his memories to find what he was looking for.

_Two boys- tumbled dark curls and pale, liquid eyes. Sherlock. Taller, older, dark-eyed, stern. Mycroft.  Staring each other down- reading each other, Lestrade realized.  Or blocking each other.  Practicing_ advanced magic _without even the benefit of a wand, let alone a formal education. Sherlock could not have possibly been older than four or five._  
  
Bickering, bickering, years of bickering- Mycroft had gotten pudgy before he'd gotten tall and Sherlock had teased him mercilessly- something here, some emotion. Regret?  
  
Flashes of the inside of their house; windows, libraries, a grandiose bedroom, a polished staircase, lawn, orchards, boathouse and a glimpse of Jim Moriarty, dark-eyed and smiling-  
  
Hogwarts. Sherlock- eleven, coltish, bony, clinging to Mycroft's robes, hands fisted in the fabric, squalling, "It's not fair, it just isn't-"  
  
Mycroft, the way Lestrade had remembered him, tall and imposing with his shiny prefect's badge. He was sitting under a tree by the lake in his uniform jumper and shirtsleeves, one long leg kicked out and one drawn up, a book balanced open upon his knee. Lestrade was preoccupied for a moment with this image of his boyhood crush, his bare forearms and the way his trousers clung to his thighs that he didn't immediately recognize something was wrong with Mycroft's face.  
  
“What's the matter, Mycroft?” Sherlock, thirteen years old and already hopelessly pretty, with oddly short hair and several inches yet left to grow. “Gone off your diet again?”  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, rubbing his hand across his face. The uncharacteristic venom in his voice surprised Lestrade, and it had clearly surprised Sherlock as well, for the boy looked taken aback for a moment before he continued a few more steps down the slope and leaned against the tree, speaking more gently.  
  
“Mykie?”  
  
"She was just using me," Mycroft said, his voice wavering with emotion. "Stupid me, I fell for it. Well, she'll pass her exams all right."

Lestrade's tongue flickered across his lips.  He'd known, Sherlock could sense, before he'd finished school, that it wasn't really Divination he was doing.  He had a spot of talent at Legilimency, always knew what the teacher or the other students wanted to hear, tailored his projections to suit... __  
  
Legilimency was creepy. A Legilimens would be disliked. Lestrade didn't think he was strong enough to be unpopular. Legilimency was borderline Dark Arts. Lestrade hated the Dark, virulently, violently, some family member in Azkaban, maybe more than one, maybe half a dozen, maybe more-  
  
A policeman. A bobby. A copper. A sheriff.  Old Muggle movies he'd watched on forays into Muggle London on holiday, it was raining, he was bored.  The police were the ultimate force for good.  Magical law enforcement was the perfect career to keep a young mind reader out of mischief.  
  
Cop. Cop. Cop. Cop. Cop.  
  
His Patronus was a police dog. He had a cop's haircut, a cop's job, all danger and very little prestige. Technically, he hadn't a Potions NEWT, but he had set a record on the Divination test, because he knew what to say, what people wanted to hear.  
  
All Lestrade had ever wanted was to be trustworthy, even if he couldn't help reaching into his friends' minds and knowing all their secrets. An Auror, hunting Dark wizards, punishing them on the principle, found in Eastern magic, that wrong thought accompanied wrong action.  
  
For one terrible moment when he was in his seventh year of study at Hogwarts, when the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had lectured them on how a Legilimens could push thoughts on others and make them seem their own.  Stomach sinking, Lestrade had believed that all the girls he'd ever been with had wanted him because he wanted them to.

_Dungeon Five suddenly seemed less a refuge, and more a torture chamber.  They’d never said “no,” because they couldn’t.  And Mycroft had seemed suddenly less an annoyance and more a hero, and the points he’d ruthlessly deducted from Gryffindor were far less punishment than Lestrade deserved.  He didn’t have any proof he’d imposed his will on anyone, of course, but there wasn’t any proof he hadn’t.  He was a Legilimens.  He could do it even if he hadn’t meant to._  
  
That's when the chasing had stopped, and Lestrade had put himself into a purely professional frame of mind.  

_And then a memory came, teased forth by Sherlock own recollection, blurry lines overlaid of something seen at different times, but the same two subjects: Mycroft, leaning close and murmuring with a girl with golden ringlets..._

“Isabella Martine,” Lestrade said aloud, straightening, drawing back into himself. “I’ve never been so glad to have put a soul in prison.”

"I told him not to date a Slytherin," Sherlock explained, settling back against the edge of the table.  “But he thought my being sorted into that house meant they weren't all as terrible as everyone thought.”  Falling into silence for a moment, Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling his dark curls.

“I think he gave up then.  Assumed anyone who showed interest in him was just using him for something.  I don’t think he's been in a real relationship since.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, looked at him like he hadn't in years, even before he'd disappeared. That searching, honest look he kept for John, because Sherlock's opinion would be  _brutal_  in its honesty.  “Am I right to worry, do you think?”

Sherlock considered Lestrade for a long time in silence, his brow creasing faintly.  His eyes were fixed on Lestrade with that keen, penetrating gaze that most people found it difficult to endure.  Lestrade couldn’t sense any attempt by Sherlock to probe into his mind, and yet there was something about his gaze that was deeply invasive, reading him as one might read a book, dissecting him into all of his component parts.  Finally, with some reluctance, Sherlock admitted, “Well... _I_ like you.”

A rueful smile crossed Lestrade’s lips, but the moment of shared contact had passed, and his dogs had come back and his walls had come up with the same resolve he’d used to fend off Mycroft, minus the sensual aspect, especially with John still waiting in the bedroom, so warm and hungry.  _You also liked James Moriarty,_ he thought to himself, behind the barriers that enclosed his mind.  But the words he said aloud were, “Thank you,” followed closely by, “Am I now to be warned against hurting your brother and promised a painful death?”

“Yes, yes, all of that,” Sherlock sighed, waving his hand as if the very idea were utterly tedious.

Lestrade was still for a moment, before he moved forward almost as quickly as Sherlock had a moment before, but instead of reaching for Sherlock’s mind he simply embraced him, drawing him into a fierce bone-cracking bear hug and thumping a fist against his back.  Sherlock responded by standing utterly ridged, arms hanging at his sides.  Lestrade expected nothing less.

“You utter cock.  It is good to have you back,” Lestrade admitted.  His eyes were a little damp when he pulled away.  “Now go to bed.  John’s getting sleepy.  I’m sure that will be fun.”

Looking just a touch flustered, Sherlock continued to hover in the kitchen, clearing his throat, his posture slightly hunched, awkward.  “Yes, well,” he said at last.  “Good luck to you, then.”

Lestrade tapped his fingers against his brow in a jaunty salute, before with a shake of his arm, letting his wand drop from his sleeve into his arm.  And then with a loud crack of displaced air, he vanished from the kitchen of 221B.

**Author's Note:**

> In this 'verse, Sherlock escaped the Reichenbach Fall by turning into a rook. He is still undercover, thus his identity must be kept a secret. Despite this, he's taken up residence with John, pretending to be his familiar, which is how Lestrade was able to detect and speak with him.


End file.
